closet.
Ina was puzzled. Her arousal diminished. She flipped through the hangers, no longer searching for an object to link her with Bass but trying instead to discover what made her nervous about the closet.
On tiptoes, she scanned the length of the shelf above the clothes bar.
Crouching, she let her eyes roam the dozen pairs of shoes on the closet floor. The shoes were set up in a single neat row near the back wall, but there were three gaps in the row.
Three pairs of shoes were gone.
Abruptly, Ina stood up straight. The hangers! The hangers were wrong. Of course.
Flicking through the suspended clothes, she found nine empty hangers.
Proud of her systematic approach to life, Faye never kept spare hangers in her closet. "Extra ones only end up on the floor," she'd explained.
She'd done her laundry and ironing after work yesterday.
How could there be nine empty hangers?
Ina rushed over to Faye's bed, dropped to her knees and lifted the edge of the bedspread. The dark space between the box springs and the carpet was empty.
Suitcases are gone.
She went somewhere.
Without telling me.
On her feet, Ina hurried over to the dresser. With trembling hands, she reached behind her neck and unfastened the clasp of the necklace.
Where the hell did Faye go?
It was just supposed to be a little canoe trip, not a weekend at a motel or something!
Jealousy made a painful twist inside Ina's belly. She shut the jewelry box hard. After a quick look around to make sure she'd left no signs of her snooping, she lurched into the hall and ran to her bedroom.
Chapter Seventeen
Pepsi Break
Rusty sat alone in his office. He turned a cold Pepsi bottle slowly with one hand, staring at it, thinking.
He'd hoped that Bill would somehow crack open the case. "Oh, sure, it was Joe Blow's van, I'd know it anywhere." Or, "I happened to take down the license number." Or, "I snapped a photo of it for my scrapbook."
No such luck. There rarely was.
But the van was unusual. There couldn't be too many with a mirror above a water bed. Not in an area the size of Sierra County.
Who says the van's local. Might've been passing through.
The killer had almost certainly known Alison Parkington, though. A lone woman driving through the mountains at that time of night -- in her nightgown, no less -- would have to be nuts to pick up a stranger.
She'd have to be nuts to be out there at all like that.
Maybe she went out in hopes of finding a stranger to pick up.
Feeling horny.
But it was certainly possible -- even likely -- that the rendezvous had been arranged in advance. A lover's tryst. Except the guy didn't exactly love her, not if he'd brought along a hacksaw.
Guys don't just wander around with hacksaws.
Any way you slice it, this was premeditated.
Slice it. Good one.
What about special circumstances?
He saw a dab of amber fluid at the bottom of his Pepsi bottle, so he raised the bottle and let it dribble into his mouth. Warm, but good and sweet.
Special circumstances?
Not likely. The victim wasn't a law enforcement officer. She'd already been dead before the decapitation took place, so it didn't look like there'd been any torture to speak of. No multiple murder involved. . . .
That we know of.
Could've been a killing for hire. . . .
Not my concern, anyway. Let the DA worry about whether it's a capital crime. My job's to catch the guy.
But how?
He'd have to take a closer look at Alison Parkington, find out if she was seeing anyone.
Check out all our local sex offenders too. See if we've got any necrophiles on record.
Find that van.
Chapter Eighteen
Wake-up Call
Ina raised her face out of the pillow, stretched until her bare skin felt taut and sensitive against the sheet, then reached over to the nightstand and picked up the ringing telephone. "Hello?" she asked, her voice husky from sleep.
"Ina?"
The voice sent a surge through her. Trying to sound casual, she said, "Oh hi, Bass. How are you doing?"
"Not too bad, all things
Ina was puzzled. Her arousal diminished. She flipped through the hangers, no longer searching for an object to link her with Bass but trying instead to discover what made her nervous about the closet.
On tiptoes, she scanned the length of the shelf above the clothes bar.
Crouching, she let her eyes roam the dozen pairs of shoes on the closet floor. The shoes were set up in a single neat row near the back wall, but there were three gaps in the row.
Three pairs of shoes were gone.
Abruptly, Ina stood up straight. The hangers! The hangers were wrong. Of course.
Flicking through the suspended clothes, she found nine empty hangers.
Proud of her systematic approach to life, Faye never kept spare hangers in her closet. "Extra ones only end up on the floor," she'd explained.
She'd done her laundry and ironing after work yesterday.
How could there be nine empty hangers?
Ina rushed over to Faye's bed, dropped to her knees and lifted the edge of the bedspread. The dark space between the box springs and the carpet was empty.
Suitcases are gone.
She went somewhere.
Without telling me.
On her feet, Ina hurried over to the dresser. With trembling hands, she reached behind her neck and unfastened the clasp of the necklace.
Where the hell did Faye go?
It was just supposed to be a little canoe trip, not a weekend at a motel or something!
Jealousy made a painful twist inside Ina's belly. She shut the jewelry box hard. After a quick look around to make sure she'd left no signs of her snooping, she lurched into the hall and ran to her bedroom.
Chapter Seventeen
Pepsi Break
Rusty sat alone in his office. He turned a cold Pepsi bottle slowly with one hand, staring at it, thinking.
He'd hoped that Bill would somehow crack open the case. "Oh, sure, it was Joe Blow's van, I'd know it anywhere." Or, "I happened to take down the license number." Or, "I snapped a photo of it for my scrapbook."
No such luck. There rarely was.
But the van was unusual. There couldn't be too many with a mirror above a water bed. Not in an area the size of Sierra County.
Who says the van's local. Might've been passing through.
The killer had almost certainly known Alison Parkington, though. A lone woman driving through the mountains at that time of night -- in her nightgown, no less -- would have to be nuts to pick up a stranger.
She'd have to be nuts to be out there at all like that.
Maybe she went out in hopes of finding a stranger to pick up.
Feeling horny.
But it was certainly possible -- even likely -- that the rendezvous had been arranged in advance. A lover's tryst. Except the guy didn't exactly love her, not if he'd brought along a hacksaw.
Guys don't just wander around with hacksaws.
Any way you slice it, this was premeditated.
Slice it. Good one.
What about special circumstances?
He saw a dab of amber fluid at the bottom of his Pepsi bottle, so he raised the bottle and let it dribble into his mouth. Warm, but good and sweet.
Special circumstances?
Not likely. The victim wasn't a law enforcement officer. She'd already been dead before the decapitation took place, so it didn't look like there'd been any torture to speak of. No multiple murder involved. . . .
That we know of.
Could've been a killing for hire. . . .
Not my concern, anyway. Let the DA worry about whether it's a capital crime. My job's to catch the guy.
But how?
He'd have to take a closer look at Alison Parkington, find out if she was seeing anyone.
Check out all our local sex offenders too. See if we've got any necrophiles on record.
Find that van.
Chapter Eighteen
Wake-up Call
Ina raised her face out of the pillow, stretched until her bare skin felt taut and sensitive against the sheet, then reached over to the nightstand and picked up the ringing telephone. "Hello?" she asked, her voice husky from sleep.
"Ina?"
The voice sent a surge through her. Trying to sound casual, she said, "Oh hi, Bass. How are you doing?"
"Not too bad, all things
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